girl…”
Maggie was immediately aware of the possibility of scandal—the First Lady in the apartment of a girl who killed herself?
No, no. Can’t have this. Must clear out immediately.
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” she said in a soothing voice, “I need to call the police. I’ll tell them—anonymously, of course—what we found. And then you and I are going to leave from the side entrance. Quickly. Do you understand, ma’am?”
The unflappable Mrs. Roosevelt seemed smaller and almost frail. “She’s dead,” she murmured in disbelief.
“She is. And the best thing we can do is call the police and then leave.”
Mrs. Roosevelt sank into a chair, clutching her handbag. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt!” Maggie cried, then softened her tone. “Please don’t sit down. You may leave evidence.”
Mrs. Roosevelt nodded and rose as Maggie moved to the bedside telephone. She picked up the receiver. “The police, please. Yes, I’d like to report a death,” she said over the clicks and static. “At nine twenty-six Massachusetts Avenue, apartment seven fourteen.” She hung up without waiting for any reply.
“We need to leave now, ma’am,” she said. “Wait—” On the desk was a pad of yellow legal paper, the first page blank. A quick glance in the desk’s wastepaper basket proved it was empty. Maggie took the entire pad and tucked it under her arm.
“What’s that?” the First Lady asked. “Is it all right to take it?” Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Mrs. Roosevelt, with all due respect, we need to leave
now
.”
—
At the car, Maggie looked at Mrs. Roosevelt and saw that the woman’s gloved hands were shaking. “Oh, spinach!” the First Lady exclaimed as she tried to fish the keys out of her handbag, only to drop them.
“Ma’am, would you like me to drive?”
Eleanor Roosevelt looked at Maggie with gratitude. “Thank you, Miss Hope,” she managed. “I suppose I’m in…shock.”
Maggie slid in behind the wheel. She waited, thoughts roiling, as the First Lady settled herself in the passenger seat and then handed her the keys.
I wish I had words of comfort,
Maggie thought, as she drove back through the thick fog to the White House in painful silence.
Only when they were safely ensconced in the First Lady’s second-floor study did Maggie ask, “May I please have a pencil?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Roosevelt procured one from her desk.
Maggie took it and began shading the top sheet of paper on the pad she had taken from Miss Balfour’s apartment with the pencil lead.
“What are you doing?” the First Lady wanted to know, peering at the empty page.
Maggie, biting her lip and engrossed in her task, didn’t answer. But what she was up to became increasingly clear as she continued to shade the paper with the side of the lead. As if by magic, writing began to appear on the page.
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Roosevelt murmured. “It’s the last thing Blanche wrote.”
To whom it may concern:
I’m so sorry, but I just couldn’t take it any longer.
The First Lady of the United States of America, Eleanor Roosevelt, has—I’m ashamed even to say it—tried to kiss me. And, I blush to write this, more. When I refused her advances, she swore she would ruin my good name in Washington and that I’d never find respectable work again.
Please know I am a lady, of upright morals and character. I had hoped to marry, to have children.
But now there’s no chance. Mrs. Roosevelt has ruined everything. Since I have nothing left, the only answer is to end my life.
Sincerely yours,
Blanche Imogene Balfour
There was a hush as Mrs. Roosevelt read the note, then struggled to take in its implications. She sank into the sofa. “This isn’t true,” she murmured, her face ashen, letter in hand. “Not at all. These are lies.
Lies!
I was never anything but kind to that girl.”
Maggie stared into the First Lady’s eyes. All she saw was pain and distress and she believed her. Still,
Maggie was immediately aware of the possibility of scandal—the First Lady in the apartment of a girl who killed herself?
No, no. Can’t have this. Must clear out immediately.
“Mrs. Roosevelt,” she said in a soothing voice, “I need to call the police. I’ll tell them—anonymously, of course—what we found. And then you and I are going to leave from the side entrance. Quickly. Do you understand, ma’am?”
The unflappable Mrs. Roosevelt seemed smaller and almost frail. “She’s dead,” she murmured in disbelief.
“She is. And the best thing we can do is call the police and then leave.”
Mrs. Roosevelt sank into a chair, clutching her handbag. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt!” Maggie cried, then softened her tone. “Please don’t sit down. You may leave evidence.”
Mrs. Roosevelt nodded and rose as Maggie moved to the bedside telephone. She picked up the receiver. “The police, please. Yes, I’d like to report a death,” she said over the clicks and static. “At nine twenty-six Massachusetts Avenue, apartment seven fourteen.” She hung up without waiting for any reply.
“We need to leave now, ma’am,” she said. “Wait—” On the desk was a pad of yellow legal paper, the first page blank. A quick glance in the desk’s wastepaper basket proved it was empty. Maggie took the entire pad and tucked it under her arm.
“What’s that?” the First Lady asked. “Is it all right to take it?” Sirens wailed in the distance.
“Mrs. Roosevelt, with all due respect, we need to leave
now
.”
—
At the car, Maggie looked at Mrs. Roosevelt and saw that the woman’s gloved hands were shaking. “Oh, spinach!” the First Lady exclaimed as she tried to fish the keys out of her handbag, only to drop them.
“Ma’am, would you like me to drive?”
Eleanor Roosevelt looked at Maggie with gratitude. “Thank you, Miss Hope,” she managed. “I suppose I’m in…shock.”
Maggie slid in behind the wheel. She waited, thoughts roiling, as the First Lady settled herself in the passenger seat and then handed her the keys.
I wish I had words of comfort,
Maggie thought, as she drove back through the thick fog to the White House in painful silence.
Only when they were safely ensconced in the First Lady’s second-floor study did Maggie ask, “May I please have a pencil?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Roosevelt procured one from her desk.
Maggie took it and began shading the top sheet of paper on the pad she had taken from Miss Balfour’s apartment with the pencil lead.
“What are you doing?” the First Lady wanted to know, peering at the empty page.
Maggie, biting her lip and engrossed in her task, didn’t answer. But what she was up to became increasingly clear as she continued to shade the paper with the side of the lead. As if by magic, writing began to appear on the page.
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Roosevelt murmured. “It’s the last thing Blanche wrote.”
To whom it may concern:
I’m so sorry, but I just couldn’t take it any longer.
The First Lady of the United States of America, Eleanor Roosevelt, has—I’m ashamed even to say it—tried to kiss me. And, I blush to write this, more. When I refused her advances, she swore she would ruin my good name in Washington and that I’d never find respectable work again.
Please know I am a lady, of upright morals and character. I had hoped to marry, to have children.
But now there’s no chance. Mrs. Roosevelt has ruined everything. Since I have nothing left, the only answer is to end my life.
Sincerely yours,
Blanche Imogene Balfour
There was a hush as Mrs. Roosevelt read the note, then struggled to take in its implications. She sank into the sofa. “This isn’t true,” she murmured, her face ashen, letter in hand. “Not at all. These are lies.
Lies!
I was never anything but kind to that girl.”
Maggie stared into the First Lady’s eyes. All she saw was pain and distress and she believed her. Still,
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